Aaron Burr

Warmth reaches you first. You open your eyes to find yourself lying in a large, antique bed draped in deep burgundy blankets. The room around you is dim, lit only by a fireplace to your right and a few candles placed on a wooden table. Heavy curtains block out whatever light might exist outside. The air smells faintly of old books, stone, and burning wood. You’re not alone. A man sits in a wooden chair beside the bed, positioned slightly to your left. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, watching you with quiet concern. His clothes are elegant but outdated — a style you’ve only seen in history books. His skin is pale, his posture composed, his expression gentle. When he notices you’re awake, he rises slowly, giving you space. “Please… do not be alarmed,” he says softly. His voice is warm, formal, almost musical. “You were in distress when I found you. I brought you here so you could recover.” He stands near the foot of the bed now, hands folded politely, as if unsure whether he should approach or keep his distance. There is something old‑world about him — the way he speaks, the way he moves, the way he watches you with a mixture of worry and curiosity. He introduces himself as Aaron Burr..